


One for sorrow

by lotesse



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Birthday, Family Feels, Gen, Loss, Taverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25312348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotesse/pseuds/lotesse
Summary: It wasn't until they were at the Green Dragon, fortified by the several rounds of food and drink that had been provided by the helpful Sam, and further supported by the presence of Fredegar Bolger, who they'd had the fortune to meet at the pub, that Merry had the problem out of Frodo. “It's a business of elevens.”
Kudos: 17





	One for sorrow

Sighing into the cool darkness of the Bag End creamery, Frodo leaned back against rough stone and let himself sink back for a moment into the well of his memories. 

He could draw on almost twenty years of experience, now, with Bag End's nooks and crannies, could remember being sent in for milk or cream or soft cheeses by his uncle, enjoying the cool on many a hot summer's day. The creamery featured in some of his earliest memories of Bilbo's smile.

But the dairy had possessed a familiar air to him even before that, back when he'd first come to Hobbiton as a boy. Something about the wet chill of the room, designed to keep milk and butter from going off in summer heat, had always reminded him of the River, and of the way that the ground floors of Brandy Hall inevitably held some of the water's wild dampness.

In just over a week, he'd be forty-four years old. The thought had the power to turn his heart over in his chest with a dull, horrible misery. He cursed himself for a soft one, and a fool.

*

Merry Brandybuck was not quite old enough to dash about the countryside with complete independence, but that did very little to stop him from doing so. The Master's heir was a wild and headstrong youth, though steady enough beneath all that to be known as a trustable, dependable lad on the whole. His father Saradoc had long since given up trying to control his son, trusting in the lad's good nature to keep him from anything more than tween's mischief.

Merry had left a note, of course, before he'd ridden for Hobbiton – he wouldn't want to make any of them worry unduly. He had pinned it to his pillow. Someone would find it by evening, he was sure.

He'd woken from a dream of the River, churning and dark, and a biting compulsion to go and see what his Baggins cousin might be up to in these last weeks of September. It was always a good season for riding out in the Shire, clear and bright in the day, cool and crisp in the starlit night. He could have taken longer, explored some alternate routes – but he did not, pressing on down the Road instead. 

He didn't stop off at the inn before heading up to Bag End; perhaps he'd drag Cousin Frodo down for a pint, later in the evening, or perhaps not.

The Row was bustling as he arrived, the afternoon sun being enjoyed by workers young and old as they labored to bring in their harvests. The season was almost at its end, the stores replete. From cottage windows, the smells of cooking and canning wafted, testament to the equal labors going on within to process and preserve the season's bounty.

In front of Bag End, Gaffer Gamgee was at work digging up his root vegetables – or rather, his young son, Samwise, was engaged in doing so, while the Gaffer critically examined and commented on his technique. “Hallo, Gaffer!” Merry called as he strode up, and the Gaffer stopped to doff his hat to the new arrival.

“Master Meriadoc,” he said. “Did the Master say he was expecting you?”

Merry laughed. “Likely he did not, because he was not,” he said. “It is a surprise. Is Mr. Baggins in?”

“Yes, he's been in all day today,” Samwise piped up, touching his brow with a dirty-streaking knuckle. “He'll be glad to see you, I reckon. I'll come in after a bit and see if you'll be needing anything.”

“Thank you, Sam, I'll go dig him out.”

Merry let himself in at the hole's green front door, and paused, listening, for signs of life. He could hear none. 

“Frodo?” he called, and got no answer. “Frodo, it's Merry. Have you fallen asleep, dozy old hobbit?”

In the study, the bedchamber, the pantry, the dining room, parlor and kitchen, no sign of the principal inhabitant. Plenty of signs of his passing, though: pens left inky on a table, a cup with cold tea and congealing honey on a spoon, a plethora of crumbs indicating a stolen snack

Finally, Merry made it down to the lower levels of the big smial, the root cellar and the dairy. There, at last, he found his cousin, lost in a melancholic daydream deep underground.

“Well,” he said, not bothering with inquiries but just starting to tow Frodo out and up by the arm, “it's a good thing I came to visit, after all. You're a mess, old hobbit. Come above ground, and tell me of it.”

“Not so much to tell,” Frodo said in a thin voice as they mounted the cellar stairs, feet padding almost noiselessly on the cool dark earth. “It's only – I was doing some adding up. Of years, that is,” he added, shaking his head as if to clear away cobwebs from inside his brains.

“Yes, I was wondering what sort of hijinks we should get up to for your birthday. One of the reasons I came by, to discuss party plans! Here, you have a seat, and I'm going to go talk to young Samwise about some tea – or something stronger? – and then some provender.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Frodo said with a forlorn smile that went straight to his cousin's heart. “You're a good lad, to come all this way bothering after an old bachelor like me.”

It wasn't until they were ensconced at the Green Dragon, much later, fortified by the several rounds of food and drink that had been provided by the helpful Sam, and further supported by the presence of good Fredegar Bolger, who they'd had the fortune to meet at the pub, that Merry had the problem out of Frodo. “It's a business of elevens.”

“Elevenses?” Fredegar inquired

Merry shut him up, “No, Fatty, elevens, no food for you here. Do go on, Cousin Frodo.”

“It's only that my life seems to change over, completely and disorientingly, every eleven years, precisely. For eleven years, I lived at home with my parents, and then they were gone, and for eleven years I lived at your home, Merry, under your parents' care; and then for eleven years I lived in Bag End with Bilbo, until he left … eleven years ago, now. And I don't know if I want my life to change and change again, what if I want it to just … stay the same?”

“You've certainly had enough ale, melancholy philosopher,” Merry teased, cutting the tension and buying himself some time.

“For the one thing,” Fatty cut in, “you've no reason to believe all that timing to be anything more than a mere coincidence. No reason at all that anything in particular should come to pass this autumn.”

“No,” Merry said, drawing out the vowel, “but something will, sooner or later. No, coz, I think you have to accept it, and prepare to face the coming wave. Something, inevitably, is going to happen next, and who knows what it will be? Perhaps you, too, are yet to come into your real fame and fortune. True adventure didn't come knocking at Bilbo's door until he was in his fifties, after all.”

“I'm not sure I want true adventure, Merry,” Frodo murmured.

“I shouldn't think so,” Fredegar echoed. “Shall we take a pledge, lads, to assiduously avoid adventure, for this year at least, and break Cousin Frodo's bad streak of numerology?”

“I'll drink to that,” Merry assented, “for this year, at least. What say you, coz?”

And Frodo echoed: “For this year, at least.”


End file.
